


Savoir le Corps

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Le Pacte des Loups | Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-11
Updated: 2004-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To know the body. To know the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savoir le Corps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Abby

 

 

"Savoir le Corps"

He considered himself a learned man. He'd studied, traveled, and spent over two years in Paris, reading and living life. His need to see more, to know more, was what had taken him to New France. And Mani was what had carried him home.

Fronsac carried the body into the castle. He swore no one else would touch it.

The first time he had seen him, Mani had been dirty, bruised, and manacled, his face painted for battle. Mani had looked more a warrior at that moment than the Captain ever had, covered in medals and glory and the blood of women and children.

Fronsac carefully laid out the body. The hair was matted with blood from the number of injuries to the head: skull fractures, one cheekbone was smashed, an ear was gone.

He had loved Mani's hair. It was softer than mink whenever he'd run his hand through it or when Mani would traverse his body, caressing his skin. It seemed to always soak in the light, whether it was the midday sun or the fire they would lay next to together. His hair was always so warm.

Fronsac brought the bowl of water and sponge to the table.

"Teach him, if you can," the captain had said. So they spent weeks together, each gaining words and learning about the other's people. He did not learn Mani's name until after the death of the captain: names had power.

Fronsac looked at the body a moment, then picked up the sponge.

Mani had been just as fascinated by his blond hair and fair skin. Mani had spent many a long night with him, mouth giving benediction to old and new scars, hands pressing to see what his eyes could not comprehend. Something so pale should be cold, Mani had said.

Fronsac squeezed the sponge over the body, letting the water wash away the worst of the grime and blood.

He knew Mani's body so well. Many times he'd traced his lips and hands along these tattoos, starting at Mani's shoulder and following them down, each line ending in a point, then tracing them back up again to start anew.

Fronsac wiped his face with his sleeve, then picked up the left arm and began to clean it.

He'd been fascinated with Mani's tattoos from the beginning. They had marked Mani as a savage as much as his dark skin. They had frightened the whore all those months ago, but they'd entranced him. He had seen them move, too, dancing in the firelight, writhing under his hand to the tune he played on Mani's flesh.

Fronsac raised the right hand. Two of the fingers, the ring and index, were broken. The bracelet was gone, blood from where manacles had dug into the flesh in its place.

The night Mani pulled out a knife and grabbed his hand, he had not been frightened. Mani had saved him just recently when the English had attacked the troops, by the purely expedient means of dragging him into the woods. It would have made no sense for him to do so if Mani merely meant to kill him two nights later. Then Mani had cut himself, as well, and held their hands together, binding them as brothers. Known to each other always, in this life and the next.

Fronsac turned the body over before he was finished cleaning the front. He could not look at that face, that blank face. Fronsac began cleaning the back.

He had not asked Mani to come with him back to France. He'd been afraid to, even after they'd mingled their blood. Mani's people were gone, but the land was still there, the forest, the wolves. He couldn't ask Mani to leave. But when the time came and the troops arrived at the dock to board the ship home, Mani was standing there, waiting for him. Mani always waited for him.

Fronsac noted the parallel wounds, as if from a claw. A metal claw. They ran vertically, while the lash marks countered them. Fronsac wiped down the shoulder blades.

He had left his own marks on Mani's back. Most faded within a day, but once he had left one much deeper, had bitten too hard into Mani's shoulder while trying to remain quiet in their small cabin on the ship home. Mani never cried out, however. Mani rarely made any sound, no matter the reason.

Fronsac found the bullet hole and paused. Possibly the fatal wound? Too much blood, it had to have happened earlier. A debilitating wound, at least. Fronsac wiped the area, then went over to unroll his instruments.

He had not been sure how Mani would fare in Paris, at first. It was loud and noisy and completely different from the woods near the St. Lawrence. People crammed together in the streets, dogs barked constantly. Mani adjusted, though. And soon they found him his own clothes. Mani never seemed completely comfortable in western clothes, though his dark and exotic features looked well in them. They did not rest easy about his shoulders.

Fronsac pulled out the scalpel from his kit and turned back to the body. He hesitated only briefly. It was a body. He'd done this a hundred times with man and beast.

He remembered, as he sometimes did, the image of Mani standing in the firelight, all savage, red-stained knife in one hand and the captain's body at his feet. He did not remember this with horror, but satisfaction: It had not been vengeance, but justice. He almost envied Mani, wished he, himself, had been just a little less civilized so that he could have killed the captain. As it was, all he had been able to do was help Mani clean himself up before anyone could see, and left the captain where he lay.

After the opening was made larger, Fronsac gently inserted a finger, searching for the small, round object.

Mani had been so tight, that first time he'd thrust inside. Many of the warriors of the tribe took warmth and comfort from each other on long winter hunts, but Mani had only ever felt the pleasure of a hand from another man, had not known the sensations that could be had from within. They were slow, and they were careful, but that first time he had reached inside and found Mani's gland, Mani's eyes had widened like a startled horse's, then closed as he flung his head back, dark hair flying and drawing in the firelight like the darkest night.

A blood clot came out in Fronsac's hand, with the small hard ball in the center.

Mani rode him hard, whether from above or beneath, almost always silent, though occasionally moaning when pushed past his breaking point, his final emission showing so whitely against his skin. He loved to make Mani moan.

Fronsac cleaned the bullet: It shone against his stained fingers, gleaming in the candlelight. Fronsac didn't even feel the pain when he slammed his fist into the table.

He'd send his friend home, send Mani back to his Spirits. But not alone.

 

 

 


End file.
